#17 A touch of silver.

It was quarter to five in the morning, Dean was fast asleep in his bed while John slept in his truck. Sam sat outside the Motel room, eyes wide, and knuckles white from his grip on his cell phone.

"So...so you got some information for me?" Sam said, his voice shook.

"Yeah. Sorry to wake you. But I thought it would be important." Sarah explained.

"And? Go on."

"Well, there has been two reported cases so far where the said person has had a case of a kind of dementia, they hear and see things, in and out of their dreams."

   "But that's in worst cases. The stage I think Dean is at isn't quite there yet." She paused," his dreams are infected in a way, he's seeing things only in his head. And blaming his suicide attempt on it because well, it really was it's fault."

"What is it?"

"Silver Sandman. It's a demon which effects the victims mind. They can be infected for years with out knowing, it can lay dormant and only jump out when it wants to. It affects people in different ways, however, the symptoms are the same." 

 "The individual slowly loses there mind. The demons, sometimes, take the form of people the person knows in everyday life. I assume its in a bid to cause more of a wedge between them and said person. The demon wants the isolated."

 "Seeing things is common. Hearing this too. Depression, paranoia and anxiety have all taken place is past victims and in Dean." 

"Okay. So these other two cases? How did they get rid of the Demon?"

Sarah hesitated."That's just it; they didn't. They killed them selves."

"Both of them?"

"Yes."

It was hard to hear that, so far, the only way to stop it all was suicide. They had taken the easy way out. Dean had tried. Did this mean he was close to their point of hopelessness?

"How do we get rid of it?" Sam asked, his mouth was dry and he was noticeably shaking.

"That's the thing, I don't know."

"But...there's got to be a way."

"Calm down. Just chill, okay? We will find a way. I promise."

"No! Don't promise. Everyone who promises breaks it. It's like a jinx ;  so don't promise."

"It's not your fault Sam. Don't blame yourself."

"I'm not."

"Yes you are. I'll call if anything turns up."

"Thank you. I'll tell  Dad."

"And your brother, he needs to know."

"And Dean."

"Sam. I'm sorry for such bad news."

Sam didn't reply he simply hung up and sat still. He wanted so much to cry and break down. But his feelings wouldn't let him. They didn't want to come out. They wanted him to stay strong for Dean and not show John that really, underneath it all ; he was falling apart.

The early morning breeze was cool against his skin, his hair moved gently in the air. A new sun peeked over the horizon and birds sang happily from their nests. Dawn birds had no care in the world, but they seemed to know Sam did.

John's truck was parked beside theirs. He was asleep In the 4 by 4's front seat. How was he going to tell his father? Or Dean?

* 

John and Dean sat comfortably across from Sam at a diner half a mile from the motel. It was twelve thirty and Sam had been up a grand total of nine hours and forty five minutes; He was, naturally, exhausted. Nether of the elder Winchesters, father and son, knew of the awful news that they were about to receive.

"Dean, I know what's doing this to you. Sarah called me, and I did some research."

John and his elder son looked at each other for a brief second. Dean was anxious, it shone in his eyes. John had the same sort of annoying look on his face. The 'What ever it is we can beat it' look. Sam just wanted to scream at him, 'Let's see you beat this!"

"It's a silver sandman. A sort of demon. It's a demon which affects the victims brain. Thing is there has only been two cases so far - "

"And they were cured?" John interrupted.

"No. The other two cases aren't sorted."

"Well maybe Dean could meet them and talk to them?"

"Sure, if he's a ghost whisperer." Sam replied, " Their dead, they killed themselves. So no one has a cure."

Dean sat silently; he seemed untouched by the conversation. His expression was blank.

"Dean? Son? Are you okay?" John slipped a hand around Dean's shoulders.

"So. If we don't find a cure, I'll die?" He finally asked, in a low but some what excited voice.

"Yeah. You'll probably end up a suicide victim or in an asylum."

It wasn't a happy thought. Dean rotting in an asylum completely out of his mind, or holding a knife to his wrists. But yet Dean's expression remained untouched.

"Son, we are going to do everything we can to get you a cure. We'll get you out of this!"

"How long did the others last?" Dean's tone was still dry.

"I looked up their files and they both lasted seventeen years. Which is strange. But it affected them in their early teens, 12 – 14."

"Four years. I have until I'm thirty. Or less counting by the way 'I'm trying to kill myself' at the moment. I could be dead by next week." Dean laughed.

John and Sam, however, found none of this remotely funny.